Trust, Half Baked, and the Loss of Feminist Values
by Calculated Artificiality
Summary: Remember Diana Fowley?  Scully muses, but abhorringly so... she doesn't wax poetic.  'You're making this personal.'  Oh yeah, they're gonna talk about it. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

So, I've always wanted to write a Diana story. This isn't really what I'd always had in mind, so maybe I'll do another one some time, but this just came to me and I had to write it down.

I'll give this one a 'T' rating... but there is some foul language in it. More than I'm used to writing with, anyhow--so if it offends you, I do apologize. But it's Diana Fowley here, so come on... it's bound to happen.

As always, I would love some reviews: )

Trust, Half Baked, and the Loss of Feminist Values:

I guess what it comes down to is trust. Stupidly enough, I had thought he trusted me more than anyone else. Well, maybe not stupidly, since that's what he led me to believe, but certainly naively.

The truth of the matter is that I really should have known better. I really should have known better than to believe that he wouldn't do this to me—that he wouldn't hurt me like this.

"Scully, you're making this personal."

I could have slapped him when he said that. I could have screamed, pulled his hair out, scratched his eyes—I could have cried when he said that. After all this time, to me. I wanted so badly to call him every name in the book—he was such a self-centered bastard in that moment. As if giving up my life [that's what I've done, you know for his quest, following him to the ends of the earth—isn't personal. God, if that's not personal, I'm scared as hell to know what he thinks _is _personal.

I walked out of that room my lips pulled tightly together, head held high as always, but I felt like complete and absolute shit. The minute I got into my car I fell apart, and the minute I got into my apartment, I lost it even more. I didn't even make it to the couch—I just closed the door behind me, slid down to the floor, curled into a ball with my back against the door and sobbed.

I didn't feel ashamed at my tears—sometimes that's all you can do, cry. I felt ashamed at my naïveté, though—I felt ashamed that I mistakenly thought I could ever, ever measure up to Diana Fowley. But I felt even more ashamed that I wanted to.

I guess what you have to understand about me is that I've always very much been my own person, I've done my own things, lived my own life—I've always been the strong, independent one. But somewhere along the line, somewhere during my time on the X-Files, I'd kind of lost that. A part of me thinks that Mulder took that from me—a part of me thinks that after everything that's happened to me, my cancer, my near death, my sister's death—that it was only natural that I become codependent.

See, that's what I've become, as much as it pains me to admit it—I depend on Mulder. I haven't quite come to accept that yet, but it is true, which I guess is an acceptance in and of itself. But I thought Mulder had realized that. The display at the Gunmen's earlier this evening showed me otherwise.

Either that or he realized it and just didn't care.

I'm on my couch now, eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked—well, actually, it's my second pint, and I think I may go for a third when I'm done. The TV is on, but I'm not paying attention—I'm too deeply lost in my somewhat pathetic thoughts to pay attention.

I shake my head. I hate Mulder.

Okay, that's not true. But tonight, I really want to hate Mulder. I want to believe that he's made me what I am—I want to believe that he's responsible for the seeming loss of my individuality. I want to fucking punch him in the face.

That was uncalled for. I know. But give me a break, I'm a pathetic, broken down mess of a woman tonight, and all I can think are violent, pessimistic thoughts. Fucking kill me now.

What I really want to do is punch _her_ in the face. She just waltzes back into his life, playing very much the role of uber-bitch to me, yet lovable ally to Mulder, and he hasn't the mindset to see through it.

God, who the hell should I blame? Should I blame her? Or should I blame him for not seeing through her thinly veiled guise?

"Fox."

I cringe when I hear her call him that. It's disgusting to me, much in the same way that she is disgusting to me. Her saccharine voice dripping with hatred disguised as love. And he fucking laps it up. I'm the only one who can see through it—probably because I'm not blinded by my hormones or my own ambition.

And even if she weren't who she is, she'd still be all wrong for him. I know they were lovers—thanks to the gunmen. "Mulder's ex-chickadee." Fucking gag me. I think I could have gone to the grave without knowing they knew each other in the Biblical sense. I think about them together and it makes me sick, literally sick to my stomach. Her lithe limbs wrapped around his, tangled in the naked pretzel.

I bet she calls him "Fox" there too. And I bet he loves it.

He loves her, doesn't he? Why else would he completely disregard everything I say.

"I know her." Bullshit. That's what it is. He loves her. And he is, in turn, blinded by that love. Of course, he'd never see it that way. God, I'm punny.

I _so am making this personal_. A long time ago, that would have bothered me—I would have withdrawn, removed myself multiple times from the situation just to prove to everyone that I was capable of being detached. Well, I blame Mulder for that too—for my current inability to be detached. I very much blame him for being attached.

I am, too. Attached to him. Which totally and completely sucks.

This ice cream is good. You would think I'd get sick from too much ice cream, but on nights like this, I can pack endless amounts of food into my stomach—I just keep going until I feel better. And then when I feel shitty again, I eat again.

Thank God I don't feel like this everyday. I'd like to thank Him for Small Favors. Not for helping me out today in getting Mulder to see what a conniving BITCH Diana Fowley is, but just for not making me feel this crappy on a day to day basis. I'd be 600 pounds if I had to face shit like this everyday.

Diana would love that. Short, ginger-haired, unremarkable and fat as fat can be to top it all off. Oh, she'd have a great laugh or thousand at that one. She'd probably convince "Fox" to join in, too.

Of course, I couldn't really be his partner then. At 600 pounds I don't think they'd want me chasing liver eating mutants. He already doesn't completely want me at his side at my current weight—so if I way more than quadrupled in size, I'm pretty sure he'd have me cast out of the X-Files for sure.

Of course, after tonight, I'm not entirely convinced that won't happen anyway.

There is seriously something wrong with me. I just envisioned myself at 600 pounds, and the only thing I was worried about was not being his partner.

See? This is what I mean about all this codependence.

Years ago, envisioning me at 600 pounds would have brought my mind to the severe medical consequences of such a rapid and huge weight gain. I would be concerned about diabetes, cardiac arrest, early death… but not now. Oh no, not now. Now all I can think about is how it would affect _him_ and how it would affect me in relation to him. See? I'm not even concerned about my hypothetical health!

So, anyway, Diana's a bitch.

Shit. He's even taken feminism away from me! How does that happen?

Having been called a 'bitch' numerous times by my male counterparts, I long ago vowed never to call another woman names like 'slut,' 'whore,' 'bitch,' and other lewd and crude things. It was kind of a feminist code for me.

Well, fuck that. I think Diana is a bitch. She's a slut and a whore too for all I'm concerned.

And Mulder, well, he's an asshole.

But a lovable asshole.

Which is clearly the only reason I'm shoveling ice cream into my mouth at the alarming rate I am. I mean, if he were just an asshole, it wouldn't matter. But of course Mulder has to go above and beyond the call of duty and be lovable, too.

He would.

I want to cry again. Just thinking about how it's not personal to him. Somewhere deep inside I guess I thought I was personal to him. I can see now how wrong I am. I can see now how wrong I was to have given up so much of my life—so much of myself for him. And to him. Because no matter how much I like to hide from that, that's exactly what I've done over the course of the years—given myself to him.

Which bites the big one.

Whatever that means.

I really do want to cry, but I feel strangely as though I've used up all my tears for the night—having spent an hour wrapped up in a ball at my door.

Instead, I open another pint and dig in.

I'm halfway through when I hear a knock at the front door of my apartment. I'm in sweatpants and a long sleeved white shirt. I pad over to the door and look through the peephole.

I see Mulder standing there looking adorably sexy and I'm shocked. I had given up hope of seeing him tonight. I really don't want to talk to him But, I kind of do.

"Go away, Mulder." I say.

He looks into the peephole.

"Sorry, Scully, not gonna happen." he says, charmingly. I hate that he's charming, too.

I sigh, knowing he's right. I pull open the door quickly, and then head back over to the couch not even looking at him. I ignore him completely. I pick up my ice cream and keep eating, forcing my eyes to stay on the TV, but I hear him close the door.

My peripheral vision sees he's not moving—just standing there looking at me. And I resist the urge to talk to him at all—I really want to yell at him, but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of humiliating myself even more.

"Sooo…" he says, and starts to move closer to him.

I don't look at him, and I don't say a damn thing, I just keep shoving ice cream in my mouth.

"Scully, we need to talk."

I still don't say anything.

He hesitates for a moment or two and there's dead silence between us, considering that the TV is muted. I stare at it like it's got the answers to the universe written all over it, though.

"Scully…" he starts again.

"Then fucking talk, Mulder." I say, my eyes still glued to the TV. "But I'm not going to listen."

I can see, in my peripheral vision, the way his body jumps slightly at my use of profanity. I don't cuss very often—but tonight I really just don't care.

"Okay…" he says, stepping closer. He makes his way so that he's standing in front of the TV. His crotch is right in front of it, but I pretend to look right through him. There's no way I'm making this easy for him. I see him look around, taking into account the ice cream containers I have yet to throw away. "What's going on here?" he says. He says it friendly, but I don't take it that way.

"Welcome to my pity party, Mulder." I say, finally tearing my gaze away from the TV (and reluctantly from his crotch), still refusing to look at his face—focusing on a large chunk of cookie dough in my ice cream.

"Are you drunk, Scully?" he asks, concern written on his face. I hate him again for a moment—as if he's got any right to be concerned about me after today.

I laugh bitterly. I'd kind of rather be drunk. "No, I've just had a lot of ice cream."

"How much ice cream?"

I shake my head. Like it's any of his business. I answer anyway. "Three and a half pints and counting."

He expels breath. "Jesus, Scully."

"Shut the fuck up, Mulder."

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To Be Continued.

Half-Baked, if anyone doesn't know, is a delicious creation by Ben and Jerry's ice cream authorities that contains delicious chunks of cookie dough and brownie. It's nearly as good as Cinnamon Bun from the same company. But seeing as Cinnamon Bun is a new creation, I didn't think it appropriate that Scully would be eating it... what... six years ago? As far as I remember, Half Baked was around back then.

Also. I gave Scully my problem--when I'm depressed I eat. Thank God for treadmills. I've stopped eating by the pint though-- I've switched to sugar free jello pudding--only 60 calories a container. Give it a go next time you're sad!

But for now... go give me a review! ; )


	2. Chapter 2

Well, here's chapter two… in a more timely fashion that any of you are used to seeing from me. What can I say? When the iron's hot, it's hot… or something like that.

Warning: If you thought there was a lot of foul language in the last chapter, you may want to steer clear of this chapter, because it gets worse. I don't know why. I rarely cuss, and therefore rarely write with foul language, but for some reason, I think Scully would be using this type of language in this particular situation… because she is absolutely LIVID.

Okay. You've been warned—apologies if it offends you! (go read one of my other stories—they're virtually foul language free!)

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"Scully, enough with the language."

I stare at him incredulously. He's got to be kidding, right? So I ask him. "You've _got_ to be kidding, right?"

He stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head, "I think we can resolve this without the use of foul names and epithets."

He wasn't kidding. He was as serious as the heart attack 600 pound me would be having. 'I'll show him epithet' I thought to myself.

"Oh, that is really fucking rich, Mulder. You arrogant, self-serving bastard son-of-a-bitch." I smile at him, wickedly, heartlessly. He's just staring at me. I laugh, bitterly. "You really are a fuckhead, you know that?"

The expression on his face is decidedly comical, and it's all I can do not to laugh at him. "What's the matter, Mulder? Cold-hearted bitch got your tongue?"

That seems to root in his brain, and he starts to speak "Scully, you're making this…"

"Personal. Yeah. I know, Mulder. You've said that already." I say in disgust, rolling my eyes into the back of my head and clucking my tongue.

He shrugs a bit. "Well, it's true."

This, of course, angers me. I don't think he even meant for it to enrage me, but it did. He really is a fuckhead. "That's because it IS personal, Mulder. It's PERSONAL!" I yell, not worrying about the consequences. I just want to scream, because though I know better, I feel like in this moment, right here, screaming will make him not just listen, but actually hear me. "You're goddamn right I'm making it personal, because it is, Mulder. And you're a son-of-a-bitch to say otherwise."

He runs his finger through his hair, "Jesus, Scully… you're so…" he says, not sure how to finish it.

"What? Vile?" I ask, stepping closer to him, "Vulgar?" I laugh. "Well, I'm sorry if my language offends you, or makes you uncomfortable Agent Mulder, but you must realize that such language is only a result of all the shit I've put up with throughout the years. Your shit. I've held off, before, Mulder—I've held my tongue, but so help me God, I will not hold my tongue tonight. I will say what I want, when I want, how I want, and I'll call you every single name in the Goddamn book tonight, Mulder. And when I run out of names from the book, I'll start making em up." I say, smiling none to kindly.

"I think you already have." He says.

I raise my eyebrow. "Fuckhead isn't made up, Mulder. Look it up on dictionary dot com. And it'll just be the tip of the iceberg if you don't get the hell out of my apartment, now."

Her runs his finger through his hair, and I think he's actually considering leaving. I'm torn between wanting him to get the hell out, like I said, and stay so I can make good on my threat of verbal abuse. He thinks what he just heard is vile? He's in store for a major shock.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Mulder nearly burnt my skin off earlier today, choosing her side over mine.

He shakes his head, and I can tell he's worn out. 'Good.' I think. It's what he deserves. He deserves to feel and look as miserable as he made me today.

He sighs, and I sit back down on the couch, pick up my ice cream and resume eating.

"Scully, I've never seen you like this…" he says, still standing there.

I keep my eyes focused on my ice cream. "Aw, gee, Mulder, does it bother you?" I ask, falsely sweet.

He starts to answer, and then realizes how utterly sarcastic I'm being. When I look up to him, I can see a flash of anger on his face, and I clench my jaw. Do it, Mulder. I triple dog dare you.

He starts to speak, then shuts his mouth. After a minute, he says "No, it's just not very lady like." There's an arrogant flare to his words.

My eyes widen a bit in shock, and I start to laugh, bitterly, which I seem to be doing a lot of tonight. "What'sa matter, Mulder? Your bitch doesn't talk like that?" I say as I take another bite of ice cream. His eyes widen and I do a little dance of joy in my soul before I continue… "No, of course she doesn't. You wouldn't want to be with anyone who has a mind of her own—let alone is able and willing to express her thoughts in any other way than a prim and proper manner—in a way that doesn't exactly make you comfortable."

He shifts his weight back and forth, and I can tell he's just that, uncomfortable.

"Of course not, _Fox_," I say, emphasizing his name—letting him know I haven't forgotten what she calls him, "She doesn't say things to make you upset—she doesn't question your beliefs, she doesn't make you work for a goddamn _thing_, does she?" I emphasize 'thing' and raise my eyebrows to make sure he knows I'm not just talking about his theories.

He's standing there, seemingly immobilized by my words, and I'm glad. I'm not backing down this time. I've come too far with him…I've come too far for him to not say what I believe now; at what I am almost certain will soon be the end of our long partnership. He is speechless, and I'm once again glad. It would be too gruesome if he got angry too—because I'm mad as hell tonight, and I really don't have _any_ regard for what I'm saying to him. I'm too damn tired, and I'm too damn spent.

I scoff. "Not a _damn_ thing. It's no wonder you went crawling back to her the minute she stepped back into your life. 'Woe is me, woe is me… Scully won't let me walk all over her. Scully won't believe my theories at the drop of a hat. Scully won't crawl into my bed…' I welcomed you to my pity party, Mulder, only because I've had a front row seat at yours for _years_. And you know what, I'm _tired of it_. So be with her Mulder. You be with her in every sense of the word, because she'll lie down and take it from you, but I won't. Not anymore, anyway." I finish my speech, and I'm huffing a bit—surprised at the intensity of my words.

I shake my head, imperceptibly, running my words around in my head. 'Scully won't crawl into my bed…' I think I may have gone a bit too far with that one, because I know I would have had he ever asked. But oh well, you can't un-ring a bell.

He's studying me now, still quiet. I'm kind of uncomfortable for a moment, but I'm not going to let him see that. Now I kind of want him to fight back. If this partnership is going to end, it might as well end with a huge bang.

He runs his hand down his face and he looks ragged. "Why is this..." he starts, "Why does this have to be…" he reconsiders. "Why is this about Diana?"

I shake my head in something remarkably close to disbelief, "Well, now, that's personal, Mulder." I say.

"It is?" he asks, somewhat sarcastically.

"Yeah, Mulder." I say around a mouthful of ice cream, about to polish off my fourth pint. "It is. But, I have a question for you."

"What's that?"

"If what happened today wasn't personal, if I'm not supposed to make this, right now, personal, if you don't consider my following you to the ends of the earth—losing my sister, contracting, battling and winning the fight over cancer via some unknown chip in my neck, then Mulder, I want to know. I really want to know, and I hope you can enlighten me… what the _hell __**is**__personal to you_?"

I set the ice cream carton down. Mulder was, yet again, silent for a moment, until he shifted almost imperceptibly toward me. "Scully, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm just really interested Mulder, in what you consider personal territory. I mean, God knows especially since _she_ showed up you won't share anything _real_ with me, and I probably should have seen it before… but NO, as usual, I'm conveniently blind to everything going on around me—oblivious to the goings on… and to THINK I even began to think that you could ever be…" I trailed off, realizing suddenly that my train of thought was going to lead me somewhere that I really, really did not want to go tonight. Not tonight. Not after all that's happened now.

Mulder picked up on my discomfort, as he usually does, "I could ever be what?"

I stall, picking up the empty cartons and carrying them to my kitchen. He follows me, of course. I throw the cartons away and head toward the freezer to grab another one. As I pull on the handle I am met with resistance—Mulder's hand stops the freezer door from opening, and I raise my eyebrow at him as it shuts.

"I could ever be what?" he asks again.

There's no way I'm doing it like this. No way in hell. "How about you answer _my_ question first." I say, smiling.

He sighs. "What was your question?" I know he remembers, he just wants me to ask it again. See? He really is a bastard.

I do my best not to let him get to me, and try to ask the question with little to no annoyance in my tone—I'm not entirely sure if I succeed or not. "What is personal to you, Mulder?" I ask, trying not to clench my teeth so hard.

He takes a moment to consider my question, and then shakes his head. "I don't know what you want me to say, Scully…"

My eyes go wild. I can feel it and I can see the reflection of it in his eyes. "I want you to tell me the fucking truth, Mulder. I want you to tell me why the hell I've been following you, only to find out that when push comes to shove, when it comes to some whore in your bedroom, I'm not even ON the personal radar."

"Just tell me what you want to hear, and I'll say it." He's so goddamn compliant that it pisses me off even more—I am clearly not even worth a fight.

I am pissed. I make a sudden move for the freezer door and yank with all my might. He's caught momentarily off guard and the freezer door collides directly with his back, sending him propelling forward. Prepared, I step out of the way, and his face nearly collides with my kitchen counter. I laugh a little and I quickly whip out another pint, and he does his best to collect himself.

I lean against the freezer and smile a smug kind of smirk, one that says 'fuck you, Mulder'—and he can see right through it. As I open the ice cream I say in a smug voice that mirrors my smirk "Tell me, Mulder, what you and Diana do behind closed doors… is that personal? Or is that just professional fucking?"

He's regained his composure from his near collision, and I can see it in his face that he's _pissed_. 'It's about time.' I think. I see a look in his eyes, and I think that I may have just crossed the proverbial line, so to speak. But, then again, I really don't fucking care tonight.

"What do you want, huh Scully?" he says as he steps closer to me. He lowers his voice, "Do you want to hear all the gory, juicy, glorious details about me and Diana? Is that how personal you want to go?"

Shit. I wasn't ready for this. I wanted to fight, but I don't want to fight like this. Especially because I can't even remember any of the juicy details from my last affair. I steel myself, though. As unprepared as I am to hear this, there's no way in hell I'm going to let him know that.

"You seem so concerned about our relationship—mine and Diana's, so what do you want to know? You want to know what she calls me in bed? You want to know how often we fuck? Where we've done it, how long it lasts, how good she is in the sack? How she screams my name? How I scream hers? Huh? How much do you fucking want to know, Scully?"

I set my jaw, because I feel the tears spring to my eyes involuntarily. I know he sees them, but while I can't help the fact that they're present, I can make sure that I don't let them fall.

"Not so tough now, are we Scully? Come on! Call me something now. Call me a bastard, a son-of-a-bitch. Say it now, Scully." I say nothing. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and I feel a shiver run through my body. I don't trust myself to speak just yet. "You're the one that wanted to get personal, Scully. So let's get _real _personal…" I still stay silent. "Oh, I know the real reason you're asking. Let me guess, it's been too long since you've had someone scream _your_ name that you want to live vicariously through me." He smiles again, the same mirthless smile, "I get it now." He says condescendingly, leaning over me.

I can't help it. After all the shit he's said about Diana, screaming his name, but mainly him screaming hers—I can't stand it. And then he insults me like that—even if he is right, he had no right to take it that far. I really, really can't help it. I see red. I go fucking nuts, and I feel as if I may be having an out of body experience. I watch myself raise my hand high in the air, dropping the silver spoon I was holding to the ground. I hear the clink of the metal as it lands on the tile, and I feel my open hand coming down, hard and fast, and I hear the smack and feel the amazingly brutal sting of flesh against flesh—my open palm coming down hard on Mulder's face.

And it feels fucking good. So, so, so, SO good.

The force of the blow sends his head to one side, and I can already see a red spot forming where my open palm hit him. I swear I hear him exhale, under his breath "bitch," But I'm not entirely sure. Either way, I'm not shocked at my actions, I'm rather nonplussed on the outside, and I suppose on the inside I should feel mortified—but I don't. I feel justified. I feel a strange sense of vindication wash over me.

I know that slap hurt him and I'm glad that it did.

He shakes his head slightly, bringing a hand to his cheek—the five o'clock shadow evident on his face. He rubs his jaw slightly, trying to ease the pain. He licks his lips and then looks at me, smiling that cold smile again.

I say nothing.

His hand still soothing his flesh, he looks at me. "What'sa matter, Scully?" Smirk. "Jealousy got your tongue?"

- - - - - - - - -

To be continued.

Ooooh, whatcha think about this chapter?


	3. Chapter 3

Hey kids, sorry it's taken me so long. Sometimes I really suck at life.  
Reviews brought me back though, I swear it.  
This one isn't as biting as the previous ones--it was somewhat hard to channel that immense anger being as bogged down as I am.  
But, Scully can't stay completely mad forever, now, can she?

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For a moment, I'm speechless. He has hit the nail on the head, and his smug look cuts right through to my heart. I avert my gaze from his eyes and focus on trying to keep the tears at bay.

I chastise myself again for letting him get to me like this. I take a deep steadying breath before I smile a little, give a little ironical laugh.

"Fuck you, Mulder." I say, enunciating the phrase perfectly with venom coursing underneath the sweet exterior.

His eyes flash something unreadable, "Sorry, sweetie, job's already taken." He says, leaning over me.

I feel the need to vomit. The first pet name Mulder's ever called me and he's using it sarcastically. Fan-fuckingtastic. When did my life get so _good_?

"You are such an asshole. No, I really mean it, Mulder. I've dealt with a lot of men in my life—all shapes, sizes and degree of assholedom, but there is no doubt in my mind that you asbo-fucking-lutely take the cake. You sonofabitch." I nearly choke on the last word as I spit it out all at once.

"Wait, there's a phrase I've never heard."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"No doubt in Scully's mind. Wow. I wish I had a tape recorder for that one."

I look at him snidely. "Like I said, Mulder, Fuck You."

He scoffs. Scoffs. The asshole actually scoffs. "And like I said, Scully…"

I don't let him finish. Instead, I push my hands into his chest unexpectedly and he moves backward enough for me to get out of the way. I slam the pint down on the counter and leave the kitchen heading for the living room.

I can't hear his steps but my heart knows he's following behind me.

"Aw, no more ice cream?" he says, sickly, falsely sweet again.

I turn on my heel and look at him, making sure there's enough distance between us. I don't know that I'm fully responsible for my actions tonight, and I may end up slugging him the next time we make contact.

"No. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach—and seeing as I was feeling fine until an asshole showed up at my door, I think it's directly relational to you. So thanks, _Fox_, for ruining yet another thing in my life!"

"Oh, God, give blaming me a rest tonight, will you? How 'bout you take some responsibility for your actions."

"Oh wait, this is amazing—Fox Mulder, reject of the FBI is going to lecture _me _on taking responsibility for my actions."

He flinches a little at my insult. "Yeah, Scully, you've followed me—you've been there. But I never asked you to."

Ouch. That hurt. A lot.

I choke back the feeling as he continues "I never asked you to be there by my side. So maybe you should stop blaming me and ask yourself why you've _chosen_ to follow me."

I already know the answer. I've always known the answer. But I'm not telling him what it is.

"Fine, Mulder. I'll do some soul searching. But if I'd have known this whole time that you didn't want me by your side, if you would have told me that, it could have saved us both a lot of trouble." And a lot of fucking hurt.

"I didn't say that." He says, nice for the first time since this fight became two-sided.

I say nothing.

He just stares at me. I want so badly to be angry like I was a few minutes ago, but all I feel is hurt. Deep hurt coursing through my veins, making its way through my entire body and I feel almost like I can't breathe. I don't know how to play this anymore. I'm so tired of playing, of wanting, of being…this. Whatever this thing is between us that just became so toxic today.

It's suffocating me, and I don't know if I have the energy to do it anymore. Any of it. The fighting, the flirting, the laughing, the crying—I just don't know if it's there.

"What?" he asks, clearly sensing a change in my mood.

I look at him—and I think. I think about today, about the things I've said, the things he's said—I think about our partnership and all we've been through together and I hurt but I set my jaw. If it's going to end, it'll be tonight—here, on my terms.

I feel my eyes glaze over and I feel my mood shift—coursing back into anger, although it's more like mock anger now because I can't feel anything except the hurt.

"What's it like, Mulder?" I say, taking a flippant seat on the couch.

He sighs. "What's what like?" he asks, an exasperated look passing over his face.

I pick up a magazine and casually begin flipping through it. Inside, my stomach is in knots—I don't want to do this, but it's all I can think to do.

"Being with her." I say nonchalantly.

He closes his eyes.

I continue flipping the pages, "I mean, really, tell me all the gory, juicy, glorious details like you promised. I mean, what's she like? What's it like together? How often?" I start flinging questions at him, the pace getting faster as I try to keep my stomach from curdling.

"Scully, don't." he says on a breath.

I look at him then, in mid-flip, "Come on, Mulder. I really want to know." My eyes are cold, I know they are—a drastic guise to cover the real emotion up—"How good is she? On a scale of one to ten, ten being the best, where does she fall?"

He sets his jaw, too—and I know I've made him angry again. "She's off the charts, she's the best I've ever had." He says, looking me square in the eye.

The tears spring to my eyes again, and I look down at the magazine, the words blurred by the tears. I concentrate on not allowing them to make their way to my voice when I say, "Good. That's good. I know it's been a long time since I've had an orgasm at someone else's hand…" I begin with surprising meanness, recalling his earlier statement, "but with a record like yours I'm sure 'the best you've ever had' is a wonderful compliment."

He moves closer, unsure of his next move. "Scully…" he begins.

"When did it start, Mulder?" I ask, unable to play anymore.

He shifts his eyes downward. "Scully…" he says again, softly.

"When did it start?" I question again curtly, but not harshly.

He comes to me then, and sits next to me on the couch. My eyes stay glued to the magazine, I can't afford to look at him now. If I do, it'll all be in the open—it'll all be there in my face, everything I feel, everything I've been feeling for years, and I can't afford to lose that tonight, too. My dignity.

"Look at me, Scully."

"I think I deserve to know."

We say these phrases simultaneously. I ignore his request.

"You do deserve to know. Look at me, Scully." He says again.

"God, you really are a sadistic bastard, aren't you? You want me to look at you when you say it? Fine." I raise my eyes to meet his. "There. I'm looking at you. How fucking long has it been, Mulder? When did it start?"

He sighs again. "It didn't."

My mouth falls open in an expression of what can only be described as incredulity.

"Don't fucking patronize me, Mulder. I've had about all I can handle tonight."

"Jesus, Scully, I'm not patronizing you. It didn't start. Diana and I are not fucking. We haven't since she left years ago."

I am speechless yet again, but eventually recover my sense of speech, "So this was just… what? A game? A game? Is that all this was to you, a game?" I feel the anger rising again.

"No." he says.

"Then what the fuck was it, Mulder?"

"I just though that…" he trails off.

"Oh this'll be good. You just thought what, Mulder? That you'd waltz in here and hurt me like that because you felt like it? And you talk about not being personal!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Scully, I came over here to apologize!"

"Then why did you say those…things?" I say, throwing my hands up in the air.

"Because I was pissed, Scully."

"_You_ were pissed?"

"Not when I first came over here, but when I said those things, yes, of course I was pissed. And you were jealous."

I avert my eyes. "Fuck." I say, not quite knowing what to say next.

"God, Scully, won't you just say it? Won't you just admit it?"

I take a deep breath—"Yeah, I was jealous."

"That's not what I want you to admit. Just say it Scully. Tell me why you were jealous."

I don't say anything—I look at him, and I see something in his eyes that I'd convinced myself I hadn't seen since Diana came back into his life. I can never quite give it a name except to say that it's beautiful and right and pure.

"Tell me."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

TBC

I was planning on finishing it all tonight  
That [clearly just didn't happen.  
Thanks for reading.  
I'll try to update relatively soon.  
Reviews would be nice to ease my troubled mind if you're feeling up to it.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: And, so, we come to the final leg of this journey- I never meant to keep this a WIP. But, alas. This final chapter, therefore, might feel rather disjointed- since I published this in 2007, and it is now 2012, I've had nearly 5 years to grow as a writer and as a person-therefore, the tenor of this chapter might be rather different than the preceding ones.

I've done my best to keep it in line with the rest of the story. Hopefully, I suceeded- if not, I still hope you enjoy.

Now, for the conclusion of _Trust, Half Baked, and the Loss of Feminist Values_:

* * *

I felt my heart drop immediately into my stomach—the thought of confessing everything to him makes me instantly nauseated. It always has, but even more so now, post-Diana.

"Mulder, I—" I stutter, glancing down and to the side, doing my best to try and find somewhere safe—but it's no use, he's cornered me; I feel like a trapped animal, which isn't a feeling I've ever particularly enjoyed. "I don't know what you want me to say, Mulder." I finish, finally meeting his eyes again.

His gaze is steady, filled with the intensity I've long come to think as synonymous with him—"I want what I always want, Scully," His voice is quiet, and I find myself leaning forward to hear what he'll say next, even though I already know what it will be—he wants from me what he's spent his entire life searching for, "The truth."

I feel something inside me begin to quiver—it feels suspiciously like the walls I've spent years building up, but it might just be my legs. They feel like they're about ready to give out. I do my best to process the information; Mulder is asking me for the truth. He is asking me for the truth about why I was jealous of Diana Fowley stumbling back into his life—why I was jealous of their relationship.

I have given him so much these past few years, I have given him _so_ much of who I am, and here he stands asking for the one thing I've withheld. The one thing I've never been sure I can give him.

"Because," I begin, my decision made, "She was taking you away from your work, from our work, Mulder." I lie.

I watch his reaction, and for a moment I'm back in chemistry class—I swear, I can almost see the reaction happening—his eyes darken and narrow slightly, and he leans his head closer to me. "Wrong answer," He says, through teeth that are nearly gritted. His anger has returned, full force—and it is fully focused on me. He has his hands on the wall on either side of me, and short of making a particularly messy and uncalled for scene, I am trapped.

"That's not good enough, Scully." He says, and his tone is dangerous—"One more chance. You have one more chance to tell me the fucking truth before I walk out of here." He moves his hand down the wall, leaning even closer to me so that I can feel his breath on my skin, "The moment you see my back heading through that door, it's done."

His tone is rough, harsh, and it's one that I would normally rebel against, were the stakes not so high. I wrap my mind around what he's telling me—that this is the last chance; if I lie again, he will leave, and who knows where he'll go—but, I'll never again have the right to ask.

"Mulder," I am astonished by the weakness in my voice, years of practicing maintaining vocal authority in the face of tribulation has apparently gone right out the window—I nearly shudder at the tenor of my quivering words. Shaking my head, I try again, with only slightly better results, "I don't know what to say," I'm stalling for time, and I know it—he won't leave unless I lie again, but he also won't participate in my games—he doesn't respond, his features stay the same.

Staring at him in front of me, I feel the gravity of the situation, and it's almost more than I can take. I have always been strong—I have always been able-bodied and able-minded, but my knees buckle under me in this moment—there is no way it will not be a defining one, and the thought makes my head spin.

For a moment, I think Mulder might have to catch me—but the buckle steadies itself, and I am proud of my body, even as my head is light. Because, even though I have always been strong and rational, I have also always been a little insecure underneath it all—and, though I never show it, I am so often terrified.

My mind runs in rapid circles around everything that could go wrong if I tell Mulder the truth; and it all keeps circling back to the end result I fear the most: I could lose him.

"Mulder, I don't know why you're doing this—" I do my best to supplant venom into my words, so that they come out angry, though all I feel is fear.

Mulder is unfazed by the tone—"You're the one that started it." He says, his voice even, "So, finish it."

I open my mouth to beg to differ—"I am not the one that s—"

He cuts me off, "I'm done arguing with you for today, Scully." His body is still, his eyes boring into mine. "Stop being a coward."

He's goading me, I know he is—I can sense it, I can feel it, but I also can't resist it. That particular defense mechanism—the "water off a duck's back" one melted years ago when it came to him.

"Fuck you, Mulder, you're one to talk," I say, my voice injected with true anger this time, "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that I was _hurt _by your relationship with Diana Fowley? By the fact that you chose her over me? Do you want me to say that I lost sleep over it—that I _cried _over it? That it felt like my heart was breaking into a thousand fucking pieces when I saw you holding her hand?"

Mulder stares at me, nodding slightly, almost imperceptibly—"That's a start. But, not good enough."

I place my hand on his chest, preparing to push him away from me—he's ready, though, and the action gets me nothing more than contact with his hard muscles—on any other day, that would not irk me.

"Of course it's not—you want _everything_, don't you? You want everything from me, and you won't stop until I have nothing left to give—until I have nothing left for _myself_, Mulder." He is silent, but he brings his hand to cover mine, still resting on his chest, he squeezes it slightly, dropping our hands at my side. He runs his thumb over the backside of my hand before he finally lets it go. His silence is deafening, it's working its way inside my head; I feel a bubble of courage rise up inside of me—propelled by the weight of so many years of withholding—it rises, starting in my feet, and it travels up through my body, until it finally reaches my mouth.

I'm still angry, but I speak anyway—"Do you want me to admit that the thought of you and Diana together drives me crazy with jealousy? That's what you want me to say, isn't it? You want me to tell you that I'm so fucking _in love with you_, that seeing you with Diana, listening to her call you Fox, and hearing you defend her left and right—that who she really is can be nothing _but_ personal for me!" When I finish, I am out of breath—and I feel the sudden sting of tears behind my eyes; Mulder is still staring at me, his emotion unchanged—fear roots inside my stomach and crawls up and forces the tears from my eyes.

I can't help it—I've just revealed everything and I'm crying—"Is that what you wanted me to say? Are you happy now?" I ask, wrapping my arms around my body. I feel raw and exposed.

"Say it again." He says, his voice smooth and dark.

_Jesus Christ, he cannot be serious_—my vision is blurry, as I swipe at the tears.

"Say it again." He repeats.

I should feel indignant—I'm standing before him, raw and exposed—but, something in his voice, something I've never quite been able to name, makes me comply.

My voice is quiet, and he leans forward, so my mouth is nearly at his ear. "I'm in love with you, Mulder." I repeat, my voice raspy with emotion.

Suddenly, his mouth is on mine—I feel his lips pressing against my own lips, soft and so very unyielding—my stomach lurches, as emotion overtakes me. His kiss is demanding, urgent, and I feel my lips begin to move underneath his—my face is still wet, my tears caress his face, and on him I taste salt, spice, and home. My senses floored, Mulder kisses me deeply and passionately.

When he finally pulls away, he looks at me for a long moment, and he is nearly breathless when he finally speaks, "Say it again." He says, with a hint of a smile.

I smile, slightly, too. "I'm in love with you."

He kisses me again, softer this time—gentler, and less insistent.

"You do not know how long I've waited to hear those words fall from your pretty lips, Agent Scully."

I feel his pretty lips pressed in a kiss on my forehead—

"I'm in love with you, too, by the way." He says, grasping the sides of my face between his hands, the pads of his thumbs lightly tracing my freckles.

He says it so nonchalantly—as if it's not a revelation in our relationship, but something he's been saying all along. _Maybe_, I think, _he _has_ been saying it all along. _ His tone has a kind of 'in case you didn't know,' feel to it—and I forget, for a moment, that I actually didn't know. I'd had my suspicions, of course, my wildest hopes—but I hadn't really known until just now.

"Diana?" I say, smiling up at him. In the back of my mind, I realize that this is probably the only time I have ever said her name with a smile on my face—and it's likely the last.

"Fuck Diana." He says, his eyes twinkling—"Though, of course, not literally." He chuckles.

I laugh back—"No, not literally."

He moves his hands away from my face, and leans back against the opposite wall. He runs his hand through his hair, "What a night." He makes the observation on an exhalation.

I lean back against my wall, feeling grounded for the first time all evening. I nod my head in agreement.

"I meant it." He says, suddenly serious and somber.

I raise my eyebrow at him, uncertain of his meaning.

"Diana," He clarifies, "I haven't touched her like that since…" He trails off, trying to remember the last time, "Well, since before _you_. The only timeline that matters. And I haven't _wanted_ to." Knowing him the way that I do, I can tell he has more to say, so I remain silent. "And I'm sorry. You were right to make it personal—it is personal. I don't know—she knew who I was once upon a time, so I made excuses for her, and I'm sorry for that. But, I _never _chose her over you, Scully—I could never make that choice. Not on the first day you walked into my office, and certainly not today."

I nod once, feeling his words envelop me—knowing and feeling the truth behind them. I smile at him, and he crooks a finger at me, "C'mere," His voice is velvety and I comply, moving into his outstretched arms.

He leans down and kisses me again, tenderly, his mouth moving against mine with the practiced art of someone who has loved me since the day I was born.

"Scully?" he murmurs, speaking against my mouth.

I open my eyes and see his gaze track sideways—I follow his look, trying to find his target.

"Yeah?"

He plants a quick kiss against my mouth, "Will you put the ice cream away now?" He queries, before kissing me deeply.

I pull back and chuckle, "Yeah, Mulder," I say, shaking my head as I step away from him and head toward the counter in the kitchen, "I'll put the ice cream away now," I grab the carton and stick it in the freezer, my eyes not leaving Mulder as he retreats back into my living room.

_I put the ice cream away_, I think, as I walk with steady feet and a clear head, into the living room; Mulder has made a home for himself on my couch, and I walk over to him—straddling him, I lower myself down on to his lap. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and I circle my arms around his neck.

I lean my head down to him, and spare one final thought for my nemesis, _but Diana Fowley is still a bitch_—and then Mulder's body pressed against mine, the feel of his tongue against mine, his palms on my back, wipe all coherent thought from my brain, until I am left with only one resounding truth: Mulder—and I kiss him back, until he is left with only the resounding truth of me.

* * *

END


End file.
